


Heartlines

by whimsicality



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Gifted (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Bisexuality, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Magic, Multi, Mystery, Original Universe, Polyamory Negotiations, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Supernatural Shenanigans, Urban Fantasy, Women Being Awesome, long fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-04-23 10:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14330316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicality/pseuds/whimsicality
Summary: Darcy Lewis knows who she is but has never known where she's from. She's crafted a good life for herself: friends who are all the family she needs, a great local bar, and a burgeoning career in academia. But she's never stopped looking for answers, and is in no way prepared for what she finds when she opens the door to her past.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm attempting a long, chaptered fic with a regular update schedule for the first time in ages.
> 
> The plan is to update every other Sunday, and I currently have a three month buffer of chapters written. Definitely won't keep that lead, but I'm hoping to stay at least two chapters ahead.

Darcy stared at the book in front of her, the words blurring on the page as exhaustion and distraction battled for control of her psyche. She’d been in the library for going on five hours, trying to find good sources for her dissertation, and basic vocabulary terms were starting to lose all meaning. What kind of word did significant think it was? Because it no longer held any significance to her. 

Poor little naive undergraduate Darcy, thinking her thesis was the worst she’d ever have to face. So optimistic about collecting degrees like they were pokemon. She stuck her tongue out at the dense volume of essays that was her latest failed conquest and let it fall onto the table with a thump and long-suffering sigh. A bare second later she winced in realization and waited for a sharp voice, then relaxed when it failed to appear. She had chosen this table specifically because it should be out of hearing range of Martin, the reference librarian who could give Madam Pince a run for her money in the scowling stereotype department, but the man was the terror of the student population thanks to his uncanny ability to hear the slightest hint of noise.

Clenching her jaw against a yawn, Darcy leaned over and rested her forehead against the thin pages of the book. Thirty hours since she’d last slept. It would be at least another five before she made it back to her apartment and the lumpy futon that had reached cloud-like comfort in her fantasies. She had one more hour to research for her dissertation; after that she was teaching her advisor’s Global Women’s History class, and then she was scheduled to help in the tutoring center until seven. To think she’d volunteered for the barely controlled chaos they called higher education. Before that thought could lead into a familiar mental spiral, the upbeat notes of ‘I’m a Gummy Bear’ exploded out of her bag and she almost fell out of her chair.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Flailing wildly, Darcy nearly knocked _Sex, Gender, and the Sacred_ off the table as she struggled with the zipper on her backpack, still muttering profanities in a furious whisper.

“I will thank you to take your noise and your foul language out of _my_ library.”

Darcy flinched as the pointed words in that nails-on-a-chalkboard voice were spat into her ear. Finally reaching her phone, she thumbed the volume button and let out a relieved sigh as the song stopped instead of growing louder. Turning her head, she saw Martin glaring at her from a bare foot away and gave him a weak smile. “I apologize. I’ll leave as soon as I’ve shelved my books.”

The older man sniffed haughtily. “See that you do.” Spinning on his heels, the librarian stalked away, righteous fury hovering around him in an invisible fog.

Dropping her head into her hands, Darcy groaned. Well, she was awake now.

Who the hell had called her and why on earth had she forgotten to silence her phone? Oh right, she’d been hoping the girl from her Witchcraft, Christianity, and Gender in Colonial Society lecture would call for that wondrous thing known as a date. A near mythical concept that she hadn’t experienced in nearly a year. At this point she even missed the awkward small talk and intense nerves that came with every first attempt at romantic contact. 

Silly Darcy, graduate students didn’t get to have lives.

Lifting her head again, Darcy pulled her hair tie out and massaged her scalp in a futile attempt at pain relief, wishing she hadn’t run out of excedrin last week. She gave up after a minute and redid her ponytail, then reached back into her backpack and pulled out her phone. Turning on the screen, she clicked on the missed call icon and stared at the words on the display, her heart stuttering in her chest with mingled disappointment and excitement. The call wasn’t from the girl with the runic tattoos who’d made her salivate; it was from Misty, the private investigator she spent nights filing paperwork for in order to pay for her services. 

Had Misty finally found something? Or did she need Darcy to come in to work again?

God she hoped it wasn’t the latter. If she didn’t get some sleep soon, she was going to start hallucinating during lectures and that hadn’t gone so well the last time it happened. She still got shit for telling her professor that he made a very handsome elephant, as if it was her fault that she’d been obsessed with Fantasia as a child and had a very vivid imagination. The experience had definitely put her off experimenting with any hallucinogens until she was at least 70 and no longer obligated to give a shit.

Only one way to find out what Misty wanted, but first she needed to get the hell out of the library before she was murdered and her body was found shoved into the book return slot. As awesome of an obituary as that would be, Darcy refused to die before they could put Doctor on the tombstone. Pushing her chair back, she stood and stretched, listening to her back pop with a wrinkled nose. Should the back of a fairly healthy twenty-five-year-old sound like that? Or had academia aged her prematurely?

Releasing the stretch, she scooped up the volume of essays and the other three books she’d been using and smiled wryly as her biceps flexed. No need to lift weights if you were in a doctoral history program, carrying the books around more than took care of any exercise requirements you might need. Not to mention how many stairs the University had, and the oh so convenient way her on campus job and the history department were half a campus away from each other, and both equally far away from the only parking lot that ever had open spaces. 

She wandered into the stacks and returned the books to their proper spots; the only usable one had a digital copy she’d use for further research. Returning to her table, she picked up her phone and slipped her backpack on. Frowning in habitual annoyance, she pulled her ponytail out of the right shoulder strap before heading for the door. She’d call Misty back, see what she needed, and then grab a bite to eat and another coffee before heading to class. Luckily enough the ickle firsties were taking a test today, so all she’d have to do was watch them sweat and try to stay awake.

Martin was back at his desk and shot her a glare as she passed by. Darcy grinned at him, a firm believer in fighting grinch-like behavior with excess cheer, and wondered how the librarian would react if she brought him some coffee next time. She grimaced and shook her head as she pushed open the front doors and stepped into the sunlight. Martin would definitely not react well to her carting hot liquids around his precious books. If she wanted to bring him a unwelcome peace offering, something non-food or beverage related was probably her best bet.

Sliding her phone out of her pocket, Darcy leaned against the sun-warmed brick wall of the library and pulled up the missed call screen, selecting the return call button next to Misty’s name and holding it up to her ear. Her heart rate had picked up again and she anxiously counted the number of rings as she willed herself not to get her hopes up.

“Finally deigned to pay me some attention, hmm?” Misty teased as soon as she picked up, amusement clear in that smooth contralto voice that Darcy envied deeply.

“I was in the library,” Darcy retorted, “and I was accosted by its dread guardian.”

Misty laughed, a rich sound that carried over even through the shitty speakers of Darcy’s cellphone. “Well, his wrath was worth it. I have good news.”

Darcy held her breath, her pulse racing as the hope she had willed away came flaring back as a roaring fire in her chest.

“I found your family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the Florence and the Machine song of the same name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that I promise that everything and everyone tagged has relevance to the story, it just might be a while before you see it because it's a long story.

Darcy stared blindly at the scratches in the fake wood grain of the table, her thoughts a chaotic mess and her pulse pounding in time with her stress headache. The students were a half hour into their exam and she was deeply grateful that she hadn’t actually had to teach today, because there was no way she could have paid them the least bit of attention after that phone call. 

It had been twenty years since she was found at the scene of the car crash that killed her parents. Twenty years of not knowing anything about her family other than their names and their method of death. 

No identification had been found on the bodies or in the wreckage, not even a driver’s license, and it was only through the limited knowledge of her traumatized, four-year-old self that the police had been able to determine the names of her and her parents. Unable to find where her family was from, or any potential relatives, she’d been placed in the system. None of her foster homes had been a good fit for a grieving child who veered between emotional outbursts and complete silence, and she’d bounced from placement to placement until she’d gone to college at eighteen.

The years had dulled the pain of the accident, the freshness of her grief. But they had also dulled what few memories she had left of her parents. The trauma of the crash and the sudden changes in her life had damaged her ability to remember, and time had done the rest. 

She had vague memories of travel, of interesting new things that she wasn’t supposed to touch appearing and disappearing from the house. She remembered fragments of her parents, just enough to know that her life had been filled with love: her father’s smile, her mother’s laugh, the look in her father’s eyes when he watched Darcy and her mother dancing around the room.

Mostly she remembered enough to make what she’d lost ache every time she let herself dwell on it.

When she’d applied for her doctorate, she’d decided it was time to investigate her personal history as well. Answers were out there. They couldn’t bring her parents back, they couldn’t erase the last twenty years, but anything she found would better than the painful emptiness she had now. Unfortunately, all her research skills were honed for finding bits of history much older, and more esoteric, than her meager two decades and change. After a year of digging on her own and failing to find much of anything, she’d gone to Misty and offered to be her office slave in exchange for her help. Her shoestring budget of financial aid, work study, and student loans barely covered tuition and rent, much less anything else, but the PI, perhaps seeing her poorly concealed desperation, had agreed to her deal. And now that deal had paid off.

She wouldn’t find out details until after class—she’d already called in sick to her tutoring hours—and she didn’t know if she was more excited or terrified. 

What if she had living relatives? What would that even feel like? 

She’d never labeled herself a lonely orphan, had never let herself truly mourn what she didn’t have. She’d pieced together her own family over the years, friends and foster siblings who meant everything to her. She’d always rejected the idea that family had to be blood, that it needed a legal definition to be valid. And she still believed that, would always believe that. But the idea of actual biological relatives, of people who’d cared for her, missed her, who probably assumed that she was dead and had mourned her loss…she didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t think she could deny the longing she felt at the very idea of there being someone out there who had seen her when she was born, who knew why her parents had chosen her name, who knew her parents at all.

Air brushed over her face and she blinked, then looked up to see that a student had finished their test and vanished out the door. Well, any cheaters were certainly getting lucky today, because her attention span and willingness to give a fuck were shot to hell. Leaning back in the chair, she stared at the rows of students, frantically scribbling, and wondered when school stopped being the most important thing in her life.

School had always been her favorite place, her safe haven, her treasure trove of knowledge. When she’d started to think about careers and life after college, she’d realized that she didn’t ever want to leave academia behind. Money wasn’t all that important to her, once her basic needs were cared for, and the idea of spending the rest of her life researching the history she found so fascinating was a pleasant one. And yet here she was, barely more than a year away from achieving her doctorate, and all she wanted to do was track down whatever Misty had found without a second look back. The nebulous urge that had started her on this quest for a personal history had been growing stronger and now it threatened to consume her.

Refocusing on the classroom, a faint smile curved her lips when she realized that half the students had dropped off their tests while she was lost in thought. She thought she finally understood the air of relaxation teachers and professors seemed to have on test days. Grading these would certainly be more fun than taking them had been. If she ended up as a Professor, she’d definitely be one of those teachers that gave a few tests a month. Being hated might be fun.

She spent the rest of the hour smirking and probably irritating the students who were left, most of whom checked the clock at least once every five minutes, providing her with endless entertainment. Lord Acton was right—power did corrupt, and quickly. 

Finally the last student, pale and scowling, dropped off his test and she rose to her feet with a grin. Shuffling the papers into a neat stack, she tucked them under arm and left the room. Ms. Cartinelli wasn’t in her office, so she left the tests in the middle of her large oak desk and locked the door behind her, smile beginning to fade.

Stopping in the hallway, she stared at her bright blue ballet flats and took a deep breath. This was really happening and she could handle it, really and truly. Yes. Rah, rah, go confidence!

Shaking her head, she took another breath and let it out slowly. Her self pep-talks had always sucked, but at least there was now amusement tempering her stress. If only her headache was as easy to dampen. She definitely needed another coffee before she left for Misty’s office. It wasn’t like she’d be getting any sleep with this kind of excitement, and hopefully the caffeine would drown out all the worst case scenarios scrolling through her mind in lurid detail.

The campus coffee cart was still open, thankfully catering to college students who believed in caffeine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She ordered an iced mocha, indifferent to the fact that it was barely above fifty degrees, and then hurried toward the parking lot. The sight of her forest green Rodeo made her smile involuntarily. It had taken her far longer than she’d planned to become a car owner, but last fall she’d saved up enough to purchase the used SUV and give up her bus pass once and for all. She still walked when she could, to assuage her guilt for joining the ranks of air polluters, but having a vehicle of her own gave her that last sliver of independence and every time she was reminded of that fact it gave her a surge of satisfaction.

Climbing into the driver’s side, she set her backpack on the passenger seat and drained half the mocha before settling it in the only empty cup holder. Misty’s office was barely ten blocks away from campus, and she needed to ensure that her nerves didn’t make her wreck before she got that far. Wouldn’t that suck. Dying of a car crash on the day she was going to finally find out about the parents who died in a car crash. 

Darcy took another deep breath and then made a face at herself in the rearview mirror. This was not the time for her shitty sense of humor. Buckling her seatbelt, she disengaged the parking brake and carefully made her way out of the labyrinth that was the University’s parking lots. 

Misty’s office was in one of those small business strip malls with bland stucco walls and a poorly lit parking lot. To the left of _Knight Investigations_ was a medical malpractice attorney with a sign so offensive it bordered on surreal. To the right was an interior decorator who always seemed to be a season behind in his window props. She parked in front of Misty’s front window, next to the investigator’s dark grey Accord, and grabbed her coffee cup as she stepped out onto the grimy asphalt. She’d already drained it down to ice, but she could pour some of Misty’s shitty coffee over it and hope that there were enough traces of chocolate left to make it drinkable.

Misty looked up from her desk, teeth bright against her warm brown skin. “How you doing, Lewis?”

“Freaking the fuck out,” Darcy said bluntly, grinning despite her words. She brandished her cup, ice cubes rattling in the clear plastic. “Let me get some of your devil brew and then you can tell me who I am.”

Misty laughed and nodded towards the always full pot stationed next to the door before slumping back in her chair and going back to whatever she’d been doing with the documents on her desk before Darcy walked in. Darcy popped the lid off her cup and poured coffee into it, pleased when it only melted most of the ice cubes. She took a sip and grimaced, then shrugged and took another long pull before bracing herself and collapsing into the client chair across from Misty. 

She was as prepared as she was ever going to get.

“Hit me with it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies, so sorry about the posting delay. I was out of the state the past few days and meant to post it ahead of time on Saturday but didn't manage to find time. I hope drunk Darcy makes up for it!

A hand landed on her shoulder and Darcy stared at it for moment in complete non-comprehension. When her eyes finally made their way from the hand to the face attached to it, she grinned widely. “Daisy! You made it!” 

“Just in time, it seems,” her friend said dryly, glancing at the mostly-empty glass of liquor in front of her. “How many have you had?”

Darcy frowned. Counting was her least favorite thing. Asking her to count after drinking was just _mean_. “Not enough. Never enough. I need more!”

“Water first, and some cheesy fries, then you can have more,” Daisy told her, stealing her glass and draining it before tipping it in the direction of the bartender Darcy had planned on flirting with before realizing that was entirely beyond her current mental capacity. “I’m properly terrified of your big news, by the way. I haven’t seen you this drunk since the day you had to defend your master’s thesis.”

Wrinkling her nose, Darcy scowled at the empty glass Daisy was holding. “That was a terrible day. This one is maybe not terrible? I don’t know. I don’t know what it is. I just know it needs liquor.”

Her best friend placed her order with the bartender while Darcy stared into space, still trying to count. Before she’d gotten past three, Daisy grabbed her face with warm hands and turned her head so they were staring into each other’s eyes. “What’s going on, Darcy? What happened?”

Darcy realized she was holding her breath and let it out in one explosive gasp, then reached out and cupped Daisy’s cheeks so they matched. “Misty. She did it. She’s a superhero PI lady. She found them. She found them, Daisy, and I don’t know what to do.”

Daisy’s eyes widened in shock and Darcy resisted the urge to smudge her perfectly winged eyeliner. Darcy could never hold still long enough to match her friend’s finesse. And drunk Darcy always had destructive urges. But not serious ones. Not burning or breaking things. Just petty shit. Like untucking collars and messing up the organization of the sugar packets. Even drunk Darcy wasn’t good at being mean to people. That’s what she had Daisy for. Ever since foster home #4 and the boy who liked to pinch. Darcy hated that boy.

“Darcy,” Daisy said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Darcy. That’s amazing. She really found them? Living family?” Her friend’s voice echoed with wonder and Darcy couldn’t help her sad smile. Daisy was a real orphan. Not like Darcy. She knew who her family was, they just didn’t exist anymore. But not Darcy. Darcy had a _grandmother_. 

What did you do with a grandmother? And cousins, apparently. Her mother had a younger brother and her father an older sister and both had kids of their own. They probably had family holidays. Reunions. Darcy had attended exactly one family reunion, with the boy she’d dated her freshman year of college. There had been way too much potato salad and ‘family updates’ that were borderline vicious gossip. The relationship had ended not long after, when he tried to invite her home for Thanksgiving. But she couldn’t break-up with her own family. Not without meeting them first.

Fuck. She had to meet them. To see their faces and come up with words and— “Daisy. What did I do? Why did I do this? I don’t need anyone but you.”

Daisy smiled at her, all warm affection, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “You’re going to be fine, Darce, you’ve got this. And I’m not going anywhere, promise.”

Darcy grinned, warm with happiness and booze. “I have to pee,” she declared, instead of anything remotely appropriate. Daisy laughed and finally let go of her face.

“Do you need an escort?”

Darcy stood up and decided she wasn’t as dizzy as she could be. “I’ll be fine. Hold our seats. And don’t eat all the cheesy fries!” 

Daisy just flapped a hand at her as she turned back to the bar and Darcy took a moment to survey the room. It was her and Daisy’s favorite bar because it prioritized the safety of its customers, and it had eclectic clientele. It wasn’t officially an lgbtq+ bar, but it tended to be at least half full of non-heterosexuals at any given moment. It had affordable, creative drinks, without falling into the hipster trap of constant reinvention or intense theming, and it had a good mix of grad students like her, young professionals like Daisy, artsy types, and those in categories harder to define in one glance. 

The bathrooms were to the right of the bar, clean and well lit and farther away than Darcy was happy with in her current state of inebriation. When sober, Darcy only demonstrated physical affection with a few very close friends and anyone she was currently dating and/or sleeping with. Drunk Darcy, on the other hand, had a touch-starved childhood and none of sober Darcy’s hangups. 

Drunk Darcy touched everyone. 

Shoulder pats and touches on the small of the back and hair pets and all sorts of things that were easy to misconstrue when coming from a tipsy stranger. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she stepped forward with determination, focusing on weaving through patrons, chairs, and tables, without accidentally or intentionally touching anyone. Flushed with success and intoxication, she pushed open the bathroom door and almost hit another woman in the face. 

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” Darcy reached out to see if she was okay, then dropped her hand, remembering her goal.

“It’s okay,” the other woman said with a bright smile. “I’d say we should suggest viewing windows in the doors to prevent things like this, but that’s a terrible idea.”

Darcy snorted. “You’re funny.”

"I think I'd be more flattered if you were a little less glassy-eyed," the woman said dryly and Darcy grinned.

“That’s fair.” She bit her lip, intentionally suggestive, and let her eyes linger on the woman’s vibrant red hair and curves as generous as Darcy’s.

The woman smiled, slow and sultry, then reached out and patted Darcy’s cheek. “Find me when you’re closer to sober and we can revisit this little moment.”

Darcy’s grin widened and she watched the woman walk away before heading into the bathroom herself, hoping Daisy didn’t eat all the cheesy fries before she got back. She had new incentive to halt her drunken spiral in its tracks.

A few minutes later, Darcy stepped out of the brightly lit bathroom and blinked, adjusting to the dimmer light of the bar itself. The skin on her arms prickled, her hair standing on end as something brushed against her. She turned, but didn’t see anyone. None of the three bathroom doors—women, men, anyone—were in the process of closing. She frowned. She didn’t think she was drunk enough to imagine actual physical contact, but she also didn’t believe in invisibility, so alcohol was the most likely culprit.

After a moment, longer than it would have been if she was sober, she shrugged and focused on the walk back to the bar and her best friend. 

She’d made a decision.


	4. Chapter 4

Something about bathrooms always brought clarity to Darcy. Drunk or sober, she often experienced her most crystal clear moments of realization while sitting on a toilet. It was kind of weird and embarrassing and the number one reason she would never write her memoirs, but here she was, once again absolutely certain of what she needed to do thanks to three minutes in a bar bathroom.

“I’m dropping out of school,” she told Daisy when she plopped back down on her bar stool, staring down at the steaming plate of cheesy fries that didn’t look nearly as appetizing as they should thanks to the knot in her stomach.

Her best friend and sister in all but blood stared at her in shock. “What do you mean? School’s always been your dream, your everything. And you’re so close to finishing your Doctorate.”

Darcy scrunched up her face. “Not like, drop out drop out. Not forever. Just take a semester off. Maybe more.” She looked down into the water glass Daisy had gotten her while she was gone, watching the ice cubes clink against each other. “I need to do this, Daisy. I need to go see them. Figure out who they were, who I was supposed to be.”

Warm fingers pried hers off the cold glass, gently squeezing until she looked up to meet Daisy’s soft gaze. “I understand. And if you need _anything_ , let me know.”

Darcy leaned forward and planted a sloppy kiss on Daisy’s cheek. “You’re the best friend in the whole world. You should be the one getting a family.” 

Daisy stiffened and Darcy let go of her, guilt cutting sharply through the still lingering fog of alcohol. “I’m sorry, that was; I’m sorry.”

Her best friend smiled, a little shaky around the edges, and pulled Darcy back in long enough to kiss her forehead. “I know, we have the same foot in mouth disease. And I’ll be happy for you until you figure out how to be happy for yourself.”

“I love you, my sweet flower child,” Darcy said, flushed with warmth that had nothing to do with her intoxication.

“I love you too, my salty little nerd,” her best friend said with a laugh. “Now eat the damn cheesy fries I got you. Tomorrow Darcy will thank you.”

“Tonight Darcy doesn’t want to,” she muttered petulantly, but picked up a clump of fries anyway, pulling them apart and watching the cheese dangle in strings before shoving them into her mouth. Tonight Darcy liked them more than she thought, and ended up eating half the basket without any prompting. “Why is cheese so good?” she asked Daisy, waving a fry in her face. “It’s like, rotten milk. It shouldn’t be the best thing ever.”

“Don’t let Jemma hear you say that,” Daisy said with amusement, batting away the fry.

Darcy ate the fry herself and shrugged, not concerned. “Your girlfriend loves me. 

“That will not save you from her all science all the time mode. And god help you if our boyfriend gets in the mix. You remember last time,” Daisy warned and Darcy grimaced.

“There were so many charts. And powerpoint presentations. And then they made me take a test! The whole point of grad school is that I’m done with tests. Just endless paper writing until my hands fall off.”

“I like their powerpoints,” Daisy said, ignoring the rest of her whining. “They used one to convince me the three of us should date. The spinning word art was a nice touch.”

Darcy laughed, warmth and confidence softening the tightness of her stomach and the tension in her muscles. She had a family. A good one. And no matter what happened with the relatives of that little girl she’d been, she’d be okay.

“If I asked them for help with the paperwork to take a leave of absence from the university, do you think they would be more help or hindrance?”

Her friend tapped a finger on her lips, looking thoughtful. “It could go either way. They could deal with all the paperwork for you, and intimidate the bureaucracy into streamlining things. Or they could needlessly overcomplicate the process and piss off the administration into ‘misplacing’ your paperwork until key deadlines have passed.”

Darcy grimaced. “Best not to risk it. That happened to me when I signed up for that summer course in Ireland. Took them forever to admit they owed me a refund when I had to back out. I’ve done enough crying in the bursar’s office to last me a lifetime.”

Daisy patted her back in commiseration. “And with that, and your obedience to the water and cheesy fries commandment, you have earned another drink.”

“Thank you, my liege,” Darcy said with an overly complicated bow that almost toppled her off the stool. Daisy looked like she wanted to rescind her permission for more alcohol, but Darcy signaled the bartender before she could protest. “Jello shots! We need one of every flavor you have.”

“We’re going to die,” her best friend muttered in a dire tone, typing something into her cell phone. 

Darcy stuck out her bottom lip, widening her eyes to comical proportions, and Daisy laughed. “Don’t worry. It’ll be a fun death. Jemma’s going to be our sober driver, so I am all in!”

“Wooh!” Darcy whooped. “Let’s party like we don’t have livers or an understanding of consequences!”

The rest of the night was a blur. The sweet sharpness of the jello shots, the warmth of her best friend’s skin, a brief attempt to do karaoke despite the fact that it was not a karaoke bar, and a flash of that gorgeous redhead laughing at her attempt to flirt. 

When she woke up, she was on a bed instead of her lumpy couch and her head felt like an image that hadn’t finished rendering. When she blinked her way through the aching fog, she was happy to find the room dim and the air perfumed with the scent of coffee. 

“You are an impressive person, Darcy Lewis. I haven’t seen Daisy that drunk since, well, maybe ever.”

Darcy winced at Jemma’s chipper voice and held out her hand. “Give me the coffee and I’ll tell you all my secrets.”

“I’m not sure you have any left,” Jemma told her, her accent enhancing the dryness of her tone. But she pushed the mug into Darcy’s hand so she didn’t retort, just managed to raise her head enough to take an incautious gulp. Thankfully it wasn’t hot enough to burn and she let out something between a groan and a moan.

“You are a goddess and my best friend is lucky to have you.”

“Indeed,” Jemma agreed. “Now get up. We’ve already started a to-do list for you. It’s not just the school paperwork, you know. You need to find someone to take over your lease, cancel your utilities, find out if you need to change cell phone carriers in order to have service in Canada-”

Darcy held up the hand that wasn’t holding the coffee mug. “Stop! I’ll get up, just, just stop. I will appropriately productive and grateful after you let me finish this coffee and wallow in your shower, okay?”

“Your terms are accepted,” Jemma told her with a sunny grin and Darcy let her head fall back against the pillow, already regretting all of her life choices. Adulthood was the _worst_.


	5. Chapter 5

Crossing the border had made it real, the transition from her life as Darcy Lewis—lonely foster child, overworked grad student, lucky to have the best friend ever—to Darcy Lang, long lost daughter of a pair of Canadians whose trip to the States had been unexpectedly final. That trip had obscured their origins, ensuring everyone looked in the wrong place until Misty took the case. And now here she was, in the city she’d been born in, outside the house her mother had lived in as a child.

Darcy buried her face in her scarf, soft crimson cloth that Daisy had given her last Christmas. She’d been standing at the end of the long driveway for ten minutes, her hands huddled in the pockets of her coat, trying to will her feet to move. Why hadn’t she called first? Why had she decided that a surprise, in-person visit from a long lost granddaughter was a good idea? She had clearly watched Anastasia too many times as a child. She was going to give her grandmother a heart attack and then where would she be.

The front door was a deep blue that Darcy hoped was an intentional choice—a sign of personality in this neat little suburb that felt foreign to her for reasons that had nothing to do with being in another country. Before she could move on to dissecting the rest of the exterior decor in a pointless attempt to delay what she had to do, the door swung open and Darcy’s breath sucked in sharply. A woman stood on the stoop, long whitish-gray hair pulled up in an artfully coiffed messy bun and fine lines around her eyes that looked like they came more from laughter than frowns. She stared back at Darcy for a moment, then arched an eyebrow that could give Daisy’s a run for its money in the perfectly plucked department.

“Are you lost? Or working your nerve up to convert me to something?” the woman called out, her voice bright and amused.

Darcy flushed, lightheaded and dizzy as her skin prickled with nerves and other, indefinable things. “Um. Neither?”

“You don’t sound very confident of that,” the woman retorted, her tone warm despite the words.

Darcy choked on a strangled laugh and then shuffled forward, to the top of the driveway. “I’m actually not lost. Not anymore. But I was. I,” she let out an explosive breath, terror and excitement overwhelming her. “I’m Darcy. I’m your granddaughter.”

The woman’s face, friendly and open, drained of all color, one of her hands reaching out to grip the doorframe. Her pupils were blown with shock but her gaze on Darcy was hard, the line of her jaw sharp with something almost like anger.

The sight actually reassured Darcy, steadying her despite the scattered thoughts bouncing off the inside of her skull. Instant belief and acceptance would have been harder to deal with than wariness. And, frankly, it made her feel more connected to the woman. Darcy had never been one to accept things at face value. 

“Darcy, my granddaughter, is dead,” the woman said slowly. Despite the fierce expression on her face, her words sounded as lacking in confidence as Darcy’s had, moments ago, and she stepped out of the house and onto the front walk. Her eyes were penetrating, and Darcy felt all the hair on her arms stand on end inside her coat, something about the woman’s gaze striking her off kilter.

There was a momentary sensation akin to what she’d felt at the bar, weeks ago, something there but not there. Only this time Darcy didn’t have alcohol to blame it on and she flinched, staring agitatedly around her, until she felt warm hands gripping hers and forgot everything but the look in her grandmother’s eyes. Eyes darker grey than her own, no blue to be seen, and no longer edged with anger but wide with wonder.

“Darcy,” she breathed. “It _is_ you. It really is.”

Darcy nodded, her eyes just as wide, and then she was tugged in for a crushing hug. Her breath caught, trapped in her throat—not from the physical pressure, but the weight of all the emotions she’d been holding back crashing in all at once. She had a grandma. An actual living grandmother. Who was hugging her, warm and fierce like she was afraid someone would rip Darcy away again. There weren’t enough words in the world to describe what she was feeling. 

When the hug finally ended—minutes, hours, years later—her face was wet with tears she couldn’t remember shedding. Her grandmother’s face was equally damp, but she ignored her own tears to reach out and wipe Darcy’s cheeks, the sort of tender gesture Darcy hadn’t experienced in any of her foster homes. She flinched back instinctually and a brief moment of pain and grief flashed across her grandmother’s face before fading back into a bittersweet smile. 

“You should call me Janet, until you’re ready for me to be your Nana again.” It was a graceful, tactful way to acknowledge what years and loss had done to their family and Darcy smiled, blinking back more tears. 

“Thank you, Janet,” she bit her lip, feeling awkward despite the permission to use her first name. “I don’t know what to do now.”

Her grandmother chuckled, her smile widening into something less grief-stricken. “Me either. But let’s start with you coming inside and letting me feed you while you tell me your story, as much as you want to share.”

Darcy just nodded, daunted by the prospect and by how much she found herself never wanting to take her eyes off Janet, her grandmother, her Nana, even if she didn’t remember ever using the word before. 

Following her inside and not fleeing in overwhelmed panic was simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing she’d ever done. Her body was on autopilot as she stepped over the threshold, then took off her coat and hung it where her grandmother instructed. She left the scarf on, a tangible and comforting reminder of Daisy and the family she already had, as she followed her grandmother through the beautifully decorated home to a light and airy kitchen. 

“Contrary to everything the media may have told you about grandmothers, I am not a woman who cooks,” Janet told her with a wry smile. “But I have a very talented daughter-in-law and money to burn so there are always plenty of baked goods I can foist off on the children.” She tilted her head to the side, eyeing Darcy with an acuity that made her feel like she didn’t need to tell her story, all secrets already laid bare. “You need croissants. And chocolate. I can’t cook, but I’m very good at making my ridiculously expensive coffee maker give us as many delicious and caffeinated concoctions as we can stomach.”

Darcy laughed, something happy and bright bubbling inside of her, breaking through the shocked and protective shell. “That sounds perfect.” 

They were silent as Darcy sat at the small kitchen table and watched Janet prepare a plate of freshly warmed croissants and a couple of mochas. The silence was comfortable, or as comfortable as it could be given the circumstances, but Darcy could feel her stomach begin to knot again. 

How did she start? 

Obviously her grandmother had assumed that she and her parents were dead, but how could she tell her about the crash? About the gravestones with names and nothing else because they’d been buried by the state and no one knew who they were. 

Or about all the years since, foster home after foster home, most neither safe nor happy, nothing like this brightly lit kitchen with its warmth and delicious smells and unmistakable evidence of a family that loved each other. 

And after she said all of those unsayable things, what then? How did _she_ fit into this kitchen, into the pictures on the walls or the scrawls of children’s art carefully framed on the stainless steel fridge door. How did she find a place with this family and the lives they’d spent together every day for the past twenty years? 

A plate and a steaming mug appeared on the table in front of her, where she’d been staring blankly at the whorls in the wood, and she jerked her gaze up. Her grandmother was smiling at her, compassion and other, weightier, things visible in her eyes. She gestured to the plate and sat down across from Darcy, her voice light. “Eat up, before it gets cold. They always taste better warm, even if it’s not fresh from the oven.”

Darcy obediently tore off a piece of croissant and lifted it to her mouth, barely tasting the flaky pastry, despite her normal enthusiastic love for them. She forced herself to swallow and then rested her hands back on the table. “What did you think happened?” She bit her lip, flattening her fingers down until she could see white around her knuckles. “Did you look for me?”

“Of course—” her grandmother’s voice broke and she took a shaky breath before speaking again, firm. “Of course we did. Using every resource we could. But we found nothing. And after so many years, it was too hard to keep looking and find nothing. We had to assume you were gone, that you were all gone.”

Looking up, Darcy could see the pain and confusion and resigned grief she felt reflected in her grandmother’s face. “They are dead, aren’t they. Hope and Scott.”

Darcy nodded, her fingers curling into fists, nails digging into the flesh of her palms. “They’re dead. Car crash. I, I was too young, I couldn’t remember where we were from, if there was anyone else. And the car,” she shook her head, blinking back fragmented memories of heat and aching limbs and the smell of asphalt. “It was destroyed. They couldn’t find any kind of identifying information. Not in the car and not, not on their bodies.”

Her grandmother nodded, closing her eyes as she pressed her lips together, her whole body tight with tension. “I knew they had to be, have mourned and done my best to focus on the living, but, it’s impossible not to hope.” She snorted indelicately, her eyes opening again as she looked at Darcy, tears shimmering on their surfaces but her mouth quirking upwards. “Your mother hated all the puns people made with her name. And your father was the worst, found it hilarious every time.”

Taking in a shuddering breath, Darcy blinked back burning tears, her heart leaping in her chest. “What were they like? I don’t—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “I remember that dad smiled a lot and I think we used to make my dolls battle each other? And I remember dancing, with mom.”

Her grandmother smiled, ragged around the edges, and nodded. “That sounds like him. Like both of them. They were both clever and fierce and they loved each other, and you, very much. They worked as archaeologists, sort of. Recovering artifacts and returning them where they belonged.” She looked down at her hands, smiling at memories Darcy wished she could see. “Your mother was stubborn and intense, far more so than her brother. It took your father a while to win her over.”

There’s silence for a moment, heavy but softer than it was before, like the weight of the blanket that keeps you from wanting to get up on a Monday morning. 

“His sister could tell you more about them, things a mom wasn’t supposed to know,” her grandmother said, with a flicker of a smile. “And your mom’s brother. They’ll want to meet you, all of them, the whole family.”

It’s staggering, the thought of family like this. Aunts and uncles and cousins and the whole tangled ball of blood relations she’s never had to deal with, for good or ill. Janet must have seen the panic on her face because she shook her head, reaching out to lightly touch Darcy’s hand on the table.

“Don’t worry, I won’t spring them all on you now.”

Darcy nodded, staring down at the shimmering yellow of her grandmother’s manicure, bright like sunshine and bumblebees. Janet squeezed her hand, then pulled back, waiting until Darcy looked up at her to speak again.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?”

Her heart lurched in her chest, unsure if it wanted to sink or swim inside her chest at the thought of staying here, in this well-kept but homey house, but she shook her head. 

Janet smiled, as if able to see all the thoughts that even Darcy couldn’t quite untangle. “Some friends of mine, of the family, own a boarding house nearby. Let me get you a room. Grandmother’s privilege.”

Darcy choked on something like a laugh, protests and gratitude dying in her throat. “A boarding house? I didn’t know those existed anymore. Except as like, an ‘old-timey’ name for a hotel in towns where cowboys are big tourist money.”

The corner of her grandmother’s mouth slanted upward, a sly expression so familiar it hurt. “Natasha and Bobbi are certainly not old-fashioned. But our community has some customs that others might find quaint.”

“Should I have given more credence to all the Canada jokes? Everyone friendly and everything maple flavored?”

Rising to her feet, her grandmother laughed. “Definitely not. But they do serve a delicious maple latte at the boarding house. I’ll give you directions and call ahead.” Cell phone in hand, she paused, humor fading into something too big for words, even in Darcy’s notably extensive vocabulary. “I am so very, very happy to see you again. And I hope you’ll come back tomorrow, once you’ve caught your breath. We have a lot of years to make up for.”

Tears slipped out unbidden and Darcy’s hands balled into fists, not ready to accept the comfort of another hug and hating herself for it. “I’d like that,” she said instead, once she could get the words out without sobbing, and managed a smile. 

Maybe tomorrow she’d be ready for that hug. Or the day after that. They had time, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we will finally meet Steve.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay everyone, had a terrible migraine yesterday that has only lightened in the past few hours.
> 
> To make up for it, I hope you enjoy overwhelmed Darcy surrounded by entirely too many attractive people. Including Steve ;)

Darcy sat in her car, once again staring at a door as she willed herself to go through it. Not that this door was anywhere near as terrifying as the last one, but the thought of interacting with people again, with a bunch of strangers who knew more about her family than she did, sounded awful. Her family had always been the only mystery about her. She was an open book, compulsively honest, even when she shouldn’t be. She’d never hid the fact that she was a foster kid, bouncing from home to home, had never been one for secret crushes or secret anything really, had never shied away from expressing her opinions or sharing details with friends and semi-strangers alike. 

But she never talked about her family. Didn’t have anything _to_ talk about. They were the gaping hole in her backstory and they still were, mostly. One afternoon chat over coffee couldn’t change that. But the people in that building, they knew her family. Knew _her_ , or the missing, tragic child version anyways. They knew the names and faces of her cousins, probably knew basic things like careers and hobbies. They might have even attended a funeral or memorial service for her and her parents—she hadn’t had the courage to ask her grandmother if they’d had one, after enough years had passed. If there was a gravestone somewhere with her name on it. 

How was she was supposed to just walk in there and pretend like she wasn’t on the verge of vibrating out of her own skin?

She needed alcohol and distance and maybe a void to scream into for a while. She wished she was the kind of person who could dance and enjoy it so she could go lose herself in some anonymous club with loud music and people that were reduced to just bodies and movement for the night. But she’d never learned how to relax enough to do that, to overcome or at least not care about her innate awkwardness, and finding some random bar to get drunk in without Daisy or any of her friends wasn’t appealing. 

Not that she was ready to talk to them either. 

She dropped her forehead onto the steering wheel, hands gripping the molded plastic in frustration. What was she ready for? Because life was moving forward, whether she liked it or not. That was a lesson she’d learned a long time ago—nothing waits for you to be ready. Not time, not people, not even yourself.

Figuring out how she actually felt would be a good place to start, but fuck if she had a clue. Joy and excitement and endless, aching grief were all storming inside of her. Resentment, confusion, and wary hope were in the mix too, and nothing was strong enough to overpower the others, to give her some guidance and the motivation to make her next steps, whatever those should be.

A car pulled into the space next to her Rodeo in the small parking lot for the boarding house and Darcy flushed. Good thing she hadn’t been reduced to actually banging her head against the steering wheel. Taking a breath, she raised her head and forced a smile. Well, if she couldn’t motivate herself, then worry about how other people saw her would just have to do. 

Grabbing her backpack, she opened her door, sliding off the seat until her feet hit the ground. When she looked up, still holding the handle, her breath left her in a silent gasp as the flush in her cheeks deepened. 

He was beautiful. 

Blue eyes, bright even in the growing dusk. Golden hair that was short and messy but she was sure would be soft underneath her fingertips. His jawline could cut glass and break hearts and his mouth, the bottom lip full and lush, was quirked in a curious smile. Darcy was pretty sure she was as red as her scarf and dropped her gaze, unable to look him in the face any longer. 

It didn’t help. 

His shoulders were broad, arms half bare despite the near freezing weather, with what looked like a galaxy in watercolor curling around his left forearm. She couldn’t see the rest of him, hidden behind his car, but she was sure it was equally as delectable. Jerking her eyes away, she closed the car door behind her and took a step forward, determined to act as natural as possible.

Her scarf tightened on her throat, holding her back as she attempted to walk away, and she tugged on it with frantic fingers. What the hell? Had her imaginary invisible stalker become real and gotten violent?

Before she could loosen the strangling fabric, the gorgeous man appeared in front of her, concern and amusement on his face as he reached around her and opened the car door. Suddenly able to breathe, Darcy stared up at him, too overwhelmed by his nearness to process what had happened. 

“Your scarf, it was stuck,” he offered, stepping back from her, a grin lurking in the corners of his mouth.

The grin enabled her to summon her pride, an edge against the embarrassment threatening to overwhelm all her ability to function. “Thanks for the rescue.”

“Hey, are you okay?” It was another voice, right next to her ear. Darcy jerked in surprise, pulse racing. She found a pair of warm brown eyes staring back at her, set in a lovely, heart shaped face framed by soft blonde waves.

What the fuck, Canada. Was it trying to kill her with a combination of beautiful people and bone deep embarrassment? Because if so, it was totally succeeding

“Uh, yeah,” Darcy answered, self-consciously touching her throat as her gaze darted between the two strangers. “No lasting harm done to anything but my ego.”

The young woman laughed, soft and low, the sparkle in her eyes inviting you to share her good humor. “I totally understand. Far too many people have seen me falling down stairs. Pretty sure I’m cursed.”

Darcy smiled, helpless not to in the face of the other girl’s warmth and charm. “Maybe we were cursed by the same thing, then.”

Something flickered in her eyes, something dark and knowing, but it was gone too fast for Darcy to be sure of herself. The other woman stepped forward, linking her arm through Darcy’s with another warm smile. “Well then, we’ll just have to stick together, won’t we?” 

Flushing from the nearness and warmth of her body, Darcy nodded, unable to respond with words.

“I’m Lauren by the way,” she said, squeezing Darcy’s arm. Darcy managed a grin, including the man who’d saved her in her glance. Her very single, very bisexual self might be overwhelmed by the attention from these very pretty strangers, but at least she wasn’t stressing about her family anymore.

“I’m Darcy, nice to meet you both.”

“Steve,” the man offered, his grin not as wide as it had been before Lauren arrived, but his blue eyes warm as they rested on Darcy’s face. “If we head in now, we should be just in time for dinner.”

“Bobbi’s making goulash tonight, it’s amazing,” Lauren told her, leaning in close like she was confiding a secret. “And whenever she makes goulash, Natasha breaks out the good vodka.”

Steve chuckled. “If by good, you mean capable of knocking anyone but her on their ass after one shot.”

Darcy grinned at both of them, steadier than she had been since leaving her grandmother’s. “Sounds like a great definition of good to me.”

Lauren nodded her agreement and started walking toward the boarding house, pulling Darcy along with her. Steve followed in their wake, and Darcy tried to ignore the voice in the back of her head that couldn’t stop asking if they knew who she was, if that was why they were being so nice. Some light flirting and some heavy drinking sounded like the perfect balm to the storm inside of her, and for once she wasn’t going to question the motives of those around her.

The inside of the boarding house was warm, full of voices and laughter. The decor wasn’t exactly homey, lots of red and black and an apparent fondness for displaying ancient weapons, but—sharp edges aside—it looked comfortable. A place to stay a while, not a modern hotel all done in white and fake flowers and ever present staff to remind you that you were just visiting. 

Not that a home was any guarantee of permanence. She’d learned that the hard way, over and over and over again, as family after family decided she didn’t fit with them. Would this home be any different?

“Steve!” a voice called out, and Darcy blinked her way back to the present as a man came toward them, his smile wide and bright against his rich brown skin.

“It’s about time you got here, man, Bobbi’s trying to talk us into charades again.”

Darcy didn’t understand the man’s dark, warning tone, but saw Steve wince, his eyes flicking to the weapons prominently displayed on the walls. 

Well, that was interesting. Curiousity about her new landlords was temporarily overriding her nerves. Any game of charades involving battle axes could only be an exciting experience, assuming one survived it.

“So, where’s this vodka I heard about?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at Lauren, Steve, and the new man. “Because I needed a shot _before_ party games were on the table.”

Lauren and Steve grinned at her and the newcomer laughed, then offered her his hand. “Hi, I’m Sam. Let’s be friends. There are not enough people with that kind of common sense around here.”

Darcy shook his hand and nodded agreeably. “Sure. Although I have to tell you, this is more new friends than I’ve made in one day since Freshman orientation. Which also involved vodka shots.”

“I am putting that on the list of charades topics, just so you know,” Sam told her, his grin contagious.

She laughed, a little more tension seeping out of her shoulders, and followed them deeper into the house. Lauren’s arm was still linked through hers, her hand stealing down to lace their fingers together. Darcy fought a flush, already feeling dizzy without the benefit of booze.

Maybe a night of flirting, fun, and the apparent risk of dismemberment was exactly what she needed.

~

Three hours later, and she wasn’t so sure the evening had been what she needed. She was sure that Canada was trying to kill her. The Goulash had been as amazing as promised, and the vodka as lethal. But not as lethal as the combination of intense emotional upheaval and a room full of strangers so attractive she could hardly think straight, pun entirely intended. 

Lauren hadn’t left her side all night, warm smiles and casual brushes of fingers as intoxicating as the vodka. Steve had been nearly as present, bright grin and blue eyes wry with good humor. 

Sam was the life of the party, and his girlfriend, Maria, reminded her of Jemma’s intensity, all brilliance and biting wit. Bobbi and Natasha were forces of nature, Bobbi loud and Natasha quiet, but both as sharp as the weapons that littered the walls. Darcy didn’t think they needed weapons to be dangerous, but could admit that the sight of them with blades in their hands had inspired entirely new kinks. Sharon had some kind of history with Steve and Bobbi, lots of inside jokes and references that would have gone over Darcy’s head even if she hadn’t been more than little buzzed. But she hadn’t neglected Darcy, had a way of looking at a person like she knew everything about them even before they did. Her fiance, Antoine “Call me Tripp” Tripplet, had a quiet humor and easy grin that balanced Sharon’s intensity well. They were an amazing group, reminding her achingly of her own found family, now a border crossing and an old/new life away. 

She did not want to replace them, could not even if she tried. But maybe she could create a space for herself here as well, a place with family both blood and not. 

A way for Darcy Lewis and Darcy Lang to find peace, and happiness. 

Lauren laughed and Steve looked at her through lowered lids and Darcy hid her smile in her glass. 

Maybe, just maybe, she could even go on that mysterious, magical thing known as a date.


End file.
